


brightest living gold

by howverypeculiar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, not very johnlock-y
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9697670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howverypeculiar/pseuds/howverypeculiar
Summary: Sherlock remembers well the first time he thought a boy was beautiful.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Frankenstein novel by Mary Shelley. Wanted to make something like this but don't know where to take it...enjoy!?

Sherlock remembers well the first time he thought a boy was beautiful.

They were very young, about 8 years old probably. His name was Henry. It was a soft, smiling summer day, and in this memory, they were on the beach near the Holmes family household playing Pirates (Sherlock’s favourite, of course), swishing their feet in the effervescent water and slashing their cutlasses in the warm, hazy air. Sherlock called over to his friend:

“Bluebeard! Quick! Batten down the hatches, the East Wind’s coming!”

“Aye, aye, Yellowbeard!”

Henry was perching on a large, cliff-like rock, holding a vehemently ferocious, yet rather lovable stance. He was a radiant, spritely young fellow. Although short in height, he seemed to skip and stride at a great pace with reckless childhood vigour. Like honey, his hair was silky, flaxen and flowing, yet it was inextricably curly. His beige skin was sprinkled with russet freckles, and it glowed with his bright spirit and verve. In Sherlock’s eight-year-old mind, the image was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

Promptly, he popped down from his cliff and ran to their makeshift boat, which was a mishmash of twigs, flatter, larger stones and other appealing materials. Unfortunately, in this excitement, his tearaway character got the better of him as he fell forwards onto the sand, skinning his knees in the process. Immediately, Mrs. Holmes rushed to aid the boy who was constantly affirming his wellbeing, yet who had tears glistening in his eyes. The sight of the boy showing such bravery and courage, yet the weakness alongside it, made Sherlock feel an empathy so strong, he felt himself go weak at his knees, and quietly shed a tear, too.

Propitiously, Sherlock pulled himself together, proceeding to declare that he knew exactly how to deal with this sort of wounds. He rushed down to his house - it was only 100 yards or less away, and he reassured his mother he wouldn’t be gone long and he knew what he was doing - and swiftly returned with a damp cloth and a bandage dressing. When he returned, Henry was seated on a picnic bench, being comforted by Mrs. Holmes.

“Here. Put this on,” Sherlock instructed in his small, yet firm voice. “It’ll stop the bleeding so fast.”

“Thanks.” Henry watched closely as his mother did as Sherlock explained. Sherlock and his mother exchanged knowing smiles, before they both turned their attention back to the injured boy. Henry’s blondish hair cascaded down in front of his face as he observed Mrs. Holmes applying the dressing to his knee. The glint of the low, red sun on the shiny tendrils was enough for Sherlock to be completely absorbed, infatuated, rather, making him forget about the tears in his eyes and bloodied knees. 

These days, Sherlock always believed that beauty was a construct of childhood impressions, influences and role models. Maybe that’s why he loved John at first sight.

 


End file.
